His Favourite Tradition
by Kittie Darkhart
Summary: Christmas 1926. It is that magical time of year again, and a now, grown-up Wendy celebrates the holiday with a family of her own—even when her beloved husband questions a few of the family’s Christmas traditions, though there is one that is his favourite.


Disclaimer: I do not own _Peter Pan_, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to J.M. Barrie. Also, parts mentioned from the 2003 P.J. Hogan film belong to Universal Studios and their respected owners. As for original characters and the plot itself, that _does_ belong to me. Please do not use such without permission.

Summary: Christmas 1926. It is that magical time of year again, and a now, grown-up Wendy celebrates the holiday with a family of her own—even when her beloved husband questions a few of the family's Christmas traditions. Of course, there is one tradition that is his favourite…Clocks, kisses, and a shadow from the past are abound in this intimate portrait of a family tradition.

His Favourite Tradition

London, England

Christmas Eve, 1926

'_Men's courses will foreshadow certain ends, to which, if persevered in, they must lead. But if the courses be departed from, the ends will change.'_ – Ebenezer Scrooge to the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, from Charles Dickens' _A Christmas Carol_, Stave IV

…

It was a pity to confess it, most especially since the occasion was supposed to have been a memorable one, but Christmas Eve at No. 14 Bloomsbury had been greeted only by grey skies and the cold, acrid touch of Winter's frost-fingered hand. The city itself had been inundated by a deluge of cold rain and ice instead of the blessed white gift from Heaven, so often accompanied by the many Christmases so long since past. As such, the streets were a sodden mess of water and mud, the sidewalks a veritable purgatory for any who dared venture upon them in an ankle-length skirt. Oh, certainly, London was, as always, a dark, decaying, greying version of a winter-born Hell for those foreign to its inclement, if not unpredictable, weather.

_But it is _still_ Christmas, no matter the ugliness of the world from without_, thought a very insightful Wendy, her face a composed countenance of motherhood and wisdom. She was now the matron of her childhood home, since her own dear mother had sadly passed on only a few winters before. A slight frown marred her gentle features. Her father had grieved terribly over her mother's loss, and had soon joined his wife in death, leaving Wendy, not with only the loss of two parents, but also, the custodian of their home. It had been Mr. Darling's last wish, after all, that Wendy and her family—whose husband had, always on time, paid Mr. Darling at the three per cents—have legal ownership of No. 14. Wendy's husband had been reluctant to accept it, let alone to even speak of it, given that it was he who Mr. Darling wished to see before he departed from this world forever. He had even pleaded with the dying man, telling Mr. Darling not to consider it, and to _'Think of the children he was to leave behind'_, but Mr. Darling would not hear a word of it, since, in his last conscious moments, he handed the deed to his son-in-law's unwilling hand, before whispering to _'Take care of her'_ with his final breath. Wendy had cried in her husband's arms when he told her that Mr. Darling's last thoughts had been of her, his only daughter.

Even now, the wound in her heart left by her father's passing still pained her, and a mournful hand came to rest over it, a figurative gesture for the father she so dearly missed. She could not forget her mother either, despite how many of her brothers were already beginning to forget the woman they had clung so desperately to when she had accepted them as her sons. A few had even forgotten about the hidden kiss that Mrs. Darling had so easily given to another. Wendy almost smiled at the memory of it. She had been so young then, so naïve of the world, and most especially in the ways of men, though she did, if only vaguely, understand the inner workings of a woman's heart. She had married a man who, at one time, had refused wholeheartedly to grow up, after all. She inwardly laughed at thought of her husband, who by now was quite assimilated into his rôle as a _real_ father and not one of pretend, and how she had managed to convince him that leaving the Neverland and growing up was not so terrible a fate as he had so surely once believed.

_Of course, neither of us had expected that he would capture my heart in the end, either_, she mused, faintly watching those traversing the streets in passing. She considered each, some of whom she had seen before, and some of whom she had never seen until that very moment, since her own private dealings in town that morning had offered her something new for which to look forward. London was that way, of course, with its influx of human traffic, from all parts of the world, and Wendy never tired of seeing such variety; it was all so new and exciting to her, compared to her now-matronly rôle as a wife and mother. She would never again see the Neverland, with its brilliant bright colours and a thousand days placed into one, she knew, since, having taken a piece of it upon her return home—a primary figure that the island was most bereaved without—had been enough.

It was a small consolation, anyhow, since she could still, if only in the faint light of the setting sun, see the island reflected in her husband's eyes; for he had lived there for countless ages, evading old age and death long enough to realise that the life he had fought so long to preserve was only a pretence, made to deceive himself of the many years he had spent, trapped on an island, a children's paradise that had truly been his hell.

Wendy heartened at the consideration of his imprisonment. For so long, she had believed him to enjoy his existence there. She shook her head, her eyes glimpsing her reflection in the window, a young woman returning her stare. She shook her head, her reflection mimicking the gesture. Such a heartless and prejudiced child she had been then, wholly unforgiving and cruel, blinded by the cold acceptance so unfortunately associated with children. Aunt Millicent had even despaired of her reluctance to grow up, the older woman claiming that Wendy would ever remain one caught in between two worlds, a veritable child who could not appreciate the woman she had unknowingly, if not _unwillingly_, become. _As I am perhaps still considered one by her—in all appearances, anyway_. Wendy nearly smiled at the irony of her aunt's words when she took in the childlike face that countered her dark-eyed gaze.

At twenty-seven, she had remained the young woman who had successfully captured even the most elusive of hearts. With her small frame and impish smile, that youthful nature of hers had never left her; for even after her marriage and the birth of her daughter, had a part of her remained young and innocent, though perhaps not entirely heartless. It had been her love for her husband, after all, that weighted her heart down. She could no longer fly because of it; she had no need to, since the reason for such remained with he—the two most closest to her heart now behind her, sharing in the precious time spent on these quiet evenings away from the world without.

Next to the fire, her daughter Jane lay on the floor with the family's pets. She smiled at her daughter, proudly looking upon the child that had been forged out of love. Jane had certainly taken after her husband's side of the family, since the child had neither her eyes, nor her dark hair; Jane was completely a product of her father's line, with those striking blue eyes that no one could forget. _Of course, Jane resembles more of her grandsire than her father, given how fair and delicate she is_, Wendy considered silently, knowing that, one day, Jane would even surpass her, not only in height, but in the number of suitors she was bound to have.

The five-year-old, however, was wholly oblivious to her mother's silent musings, her own attention fixed on the turtle—Barbecue, for such was his name—that her parents had given her, as well as the white rabbit—an early Christmas present from one of her mother's friends, since the poor thing would not be able to _wait_ until Christmas, wrapped in a box—laboured before her, accommodating in her childish fascination of them.

Wendy quietly laughed at the scene as she recalled her husband's reluctance to keep Jane's newest gift, for she knew that he feared the creature, cute and innocent though it was, would leave 'presents' of its own if they were not careful. _But then,_ countered a very perceptive Wendy,_ in spite of his disinclination to have another pet roaming freely about the house, he has nonetheless allowed Jane to keep it_. He had received a kiss for his trouble, and with what he was sure to be a sincere declaration, that he was 'The best father in the world' had compelled him to name the family's newest edition Lady Grey, after the ill-fated Nine Days Queen, whom one of his ancestors—he had forgotten which, exactly—claimed to have known.

Of course, Jane had commended her father's choice in name, since such had been sufficient enough to convince him to keep the rabbit. Wendy could scarcely understand how Jane managed to constantly sway him to her side on things, for he appeared to be securely wrapped round Jane's tiny finger. But then, Wendy herself was quite a master in the art of acquiring her every desire from the man she had married. A kiss to the cheek was enough to sway him on almost anything, for he loved her kisses, most especially the one she had so freely given—her own hidden kiss—so long ago. She almost smiled when she remembered what it felt to give him her most precious gift. She had been little more than a young woman then, and they had been on the deck of the _Jolly Roger_—a ship he had claimed in a past victory—with only love in their eyes. He had been so handsome then, so dashing with that cavalier smile of his. For it must be admitted that he had changed since their last meeting, so much so that she hardly believed he was even—

"That was very bad form, Lady Grey, jumping on Barbecue like that! You need to apologise to him, otherwise Father Christmas will not bring you a carrot; and you wouldn't want that, would you?" an ever-proper Jane questioned, her look cross. Lady Grey, however, ignored her as she sniffed Barbecue's shell. The turtle turned his tiny black head to the side, as if amused by his new companion's curiosity.

Wendy smiled at Jane's interruption, suppressing her own amusement of the scene before her. Surely Jane, given her predilections in what it was to be proper, would be far more of a lady than she had been. _Aunt Millicent will surely approve, of course, since she wholeheartedly _disapproves_ of my marriage to_—

A poetic string of French curses reverberated throughout the room, their origin standing, rather forbiddingly, against the tree. "If only I could still _fly_," he muttered, casting a dark look at his tall frame and booted feet.

With a despairing look, Wendy sighed, shaking her head at her husband's display. Of all the things he could possibly say on Christmas Eve! She glanced at her daughter, wholly relieved that Jane was still engrossed in teaching her pets _proper_ etiquette to notice the verbalised horror uttered by her incensed father. Mercifully, Jane had not yet been taught the language so often spoken by her father, when in fits of rage—which were, rather unfortunately, quite often—chose the enemy language. He had a temper about him, as such had been a certainty when Wendy had married him. She dared not think of their wedding night—not now, anyway—since the one who claimed the whole of her heart, as well as her kiss, continued on in his terrible tirade, the star in his hand—which always went on top of the tree—the apparent cause for his sudden upset.

"Language, my love," she found herself say to him as she drew near to his side. She ignored the dark scowl he directed at her, placing a consoling hand on one of his tensed shoulders, before offering him one of her timeless smiles. "There is no need for such words. It _is_ Christmas Eve, after all."

His head inclined forward in acknowledgement, and he grumbled out what sounded like an apology under his breath. "Perhaps you are right," he hedged, but then his scowl shifted into a smirk that Wendy knew all too well: boyishly handsome, though undoubtedly malevolent underneath its feigned innocence. He chuckled when he saw her newfound suspicion. Leave it to his beloved wife to consider only the worst in him; but then, he would not disappoint her, either. With a rakish grin, he leaned forward, his lumbering height overshadowing her tiny figure, the star in which he held resting under her chin, its golden point tilting her face upward—toward Heaven, as it were—to meet his gaze. He regarded her silently, half-amused by the challenging look in her eyes. He had the audacity to wink at her, charmed as he presently was by his storyteller.

"Oh, certainly, you are right, my dear," conceded he in a faint whisper, "for after all, 'tis tradition that I, being in the rôle of husband and father, must endure this annual torture, which consumes the whole of London at this dismal time of year." He shook his head, a few wayward curls falling wildly against his forehead. He leaned closer, enjoying the feel of her hand when Wendy pulled them aside, his present irritation falling away by that most sacrosanct touch. He almost groaned, though held firm in his adulation of her for the sake of their daughter. Far be it, that Jane question _why_ he appeared to be in pain. _She would think it more in line of a stomach ache than anything_, thought he as looked at Wendy. Her patient smile comforted him, those dark eyes full of understanding. He could scarcely register how she knew his thoughts so well. _Perhaps it is where I slipped through and found Heaven upon taking her kiss_, he mused, for once convinced that Aunt Millicent knew what she was talking about, as Wendy had undoubtedly shown him in what it was to leave the Neverland, and to actually 'grow up'. He had never regretted leaving that ageless paradise; Wendy had shown him what it was to truly live, as discovering each new day with her had been, for him, an awfully big adventure.

Composing himself, he withdrew from her alluring touch. "We shall continue this discussion tonight," he whispered in her ear, his meaning not lost on her, for she blushed fiercely at his suggestion. He gave her an engaging smile. "But truly, though, I can scarcely comprehend all of these Christmas traditions. When I was a boy, Christmas was nothing like what 'tis today. I still fail to understand _why_ we must have a _tree_ in our home; for is not better to allow it to live to a grand old age, than to chop it down and enjoy its beauty for only a month? It seems rather cruel, you realise, given the fact that you had lived in _one_."

Taken aback by his remark, Wendy countered it, though her words were sincere, "I enjoyed my time in the treehouse during spring-cleanings, as you may recall. And I certainly regret the Christmas tree living for only a short time, truly I do. But then, consider, my love, when you were a boy, Christmas was not something you were wont to celebrate here—or even in the Neverland, for that matter. Our childhoods were comparatively different."

"As is our tastes in honouring tradition apparently are," he added dryly, that taunting smirk widening. "Oh, come now, surely you agree that you would not have married me, had I not convinced you that there was no other choice that day?"

Wendy had the grace to blush, for she well remembered her wedding day. "I would have been ruined," she admitted quietly, but then playfully added, "_You_ would have ruined me, had I not agreed. I still cannot believe how you tricked me with a _thimble_!"

Her husband snorted. "You wound me, madam," he said, feigning affront. "Indeed, I daresay I am left quite injured by your words." His eyes darkened to a deep, fathomless blue, oceanic, mysterious. "That was very bad form, my dear. Quite indeed, I feel that, tonight, you shall wish that you could still fly after learning what I intend to do to thee…"

The storyteller smiled. He had reverted back to his second English, his dark intent heavily veiled under a cloak of obscurity. She gave him a consoling look. "If it offends you so much, then I shall endeavour to make it up to you, by first putting this star in its rightful place," she offered, but her hand was swatted away in the attempt to relieve him of it.

"You will do no such thing, since you have left me alone for most of the day. Truly, my dear, what could be so important as to acquire in town on Christmas Eve, I wonder. Is it a secret that you have no wish to tell me?" he groused, albeit good-naturedly. He laughed when he saw pale. "Ah, no matter, as I daresay I shall discover what trickery you are up to soon enough. I should punish you for leaving me here without any help, and having only our daughter and that hard-shelled fiend and mound of fur for company. But then, you are quite forceful in my keeping true to thy family's customs. For after all, it is _my_ part to do this; you said that is how 'tis done. I shall not break from tradition, even when I have to do battle with this infernal thing." He waved the star in emphasis. "I cannot understand how this wretched piece of tin is to stay up there, anyhow. Perhaps if I were to chop the tree down…"

Wendy inwardly sighed. How she had married such a man, knowing beforehand how wilful he could be, she knew not. Love was certainly a reason, certainly, if not an ever-present madness. And granted, her husband's lack of patience was something to be acknowledged…but this, and over the simplest of things, too. He could still be such a child! She shook her head, despairing in his stubborn nature. "Oh, honestly, dear," she began calmly, her hand again extending toward the star. "I can—"

But again, she was hindered in her attempt. "I shall hear none of it," he said, stubborn to the last. "Indeed, I will not allow anyone but myself to—"

"Mama, Papa, why are you arguing over the star?" Jane interrupted softly, Barbecue and Lady Grey forgotten by the fireplace for a moment. "Is something the matter with it?" she asked gently, her bright blue eyes drawing over her parents in question.

Her father shook his head, as if ashamed of being found in poor form. "Nothing is the matter, _ma petite,_" he reassured her, before turning to Wendy, who offered Jane the same reassurance.

"We were not arguing, dear one," she said, most sincere in her words. "Your father and I were merely teasing one another, as we have always done."

But their daughter, however young and naïve, was not convinced. "You were still tugging at the star; I saw you," she pointed out. "Both of you want to put it on, but only one of you can…" She frowned then, her five-year-old intuition taking in her parents' dilemma. "I've got it!" she exclaimed after a thoughtful moment. "I can put it on the tree! I _am_ old enough now; I am five, after all. Oh, can I? I have never put it on, not once in my life," she avowed, believing such to be true; and her parents, looking to one another, relented, before happily giving in to their daughter's wish.

"Oh, very well," her father grumbled, though Jane knew he meant it in jest, as he handed her the star. She squealed in delight when he took her into his arms and, lifting her upon his shoulder so she could reach the top, allowed her to put it on. Jane looked at it, proud in her work as the star remained, unmoving from where she her tiny hands had placed it. Her father gave her an encouraging nod as he placed her to stand at his side again, and her mother kissed her cheek.

"That was perfect, dear one," she commended gently, and Jane smiled, seemingly pleased that she had done something for her parents. Wendy laughed in kind. She glanced at the tree, admiring the golden star adorning its emerald top, the plethora of presents below complimenting both in a rainbow of colour and velvet ribbons. Jane had done marvellously well in her work, having even, Wendy believed, rivalled her own father. _Of course, this tradition is still somewhat new to him; he has only been celebrating Christmas as we do these last five years_, she thought before the clock in the hall chimed the hour. She vaguely noticed her husband flinch as Jane bit her lip—a habit she had acquired from Wendy—in discontent. She offered her daughter a comforting look, and took one of Jane's tiny hands in hers. "Come on, dear one," she whispered gently. "The hour grows late, and you should be in bed."

Jane's narrow shoulders sagged in resignation. "Oh, can't I stay up with you and Papa? Liza isn't here to worry over putting me to bed tonight. We could even open one of the presents—perhaps even that large one with the blue ribbon that has my name on it. Oh, Mama, can't we? Please?"

And yet, Wendy, though moved by her daughter's pleas, could only sadly shake her head, the ninth and final chime of the clock sounding the late hour. She was relieved when her husband came to her side, a single, strong hand offering support.

"You must go to bed, Jane," he said firmly, his blue eyes, which Jane had duly inherited from him, compelling her to obey.

Jane nodded, however reluctantly. She took a step toward the parlour door, but then stopped. Turning once more to the tree, she considered one of its presents—a small box, wrapped in green paper. She smiled at it, remembering how she and her mother had wrapped it. It had been the perfect gift, she believed, since she knew her father would love it; whereas such, she turned to him, her face brightening in excitement. "I will go to bed, Papa," she promised him, ever the obedient and loving daughter—though not _too_ obedient. She let go of her mother's hand, and Wendy nodded to her in understanding. Jane reflected Wendy's silent look, for both knew of Jane's intent.

"Go on," Wendy whispered, urging Jane forward with an encouraging smile.

Jane's auburn curls bounced merrily in accord as, with her mother's blessing, she bravely ventured over to the tree. She hesitated, if only for a moment, before taking the small present in hand. She looked at it, with its dark-green wrapping and long golden ribbon, and she smiled. It fit in the palm of her hand, for so small and delicate it was, compared to the giant of man for which it was intended. And yet, it suited him, Jane believed, as she then turned to the man she called 'Father' whose eyes were now shaded in question. "I will go to bed," she said again, approaching him. "But first, I want to give this to you early, since I know it will help you in the morning."

Her father matched her gaze; those uncertain eyes shifting to the present in her tiny hand. "Jane," he began reluctantly, as if feeling unworthy to accept such a gift. He felt Wendy join his side, as she, like he had only moments before done for her, offered him the assurance he needed.

_Open it,_ she mouthed to him silently, her dark eyes brightening in hope—hope that he could scarcely ever attain for himself; and so he relented, giving in to the two people who meant everything to him.

With a single hand, he accepted the gift, and tore at the wrapping, his movements slow, cautious. The velvet ribbon fell soundlessly to the floor, a golden puddle resting at his feet. The green paper soon followed, joining the ribbon just as silently before only a small black box remained. He looked at it, a faint sound coming from within. "What on Earth?" he murmured, half to himself, half to the box he held. He stared it for a moment, his curiosity getting the better of him as his fingers deftly removed its hard black lid. He almost dropped the box, his eyes clouding over in shocked disbelief as that which he held, had not been what he expected—quite the opposite.

"Do you like it, Papa?" Jane asked in a hopeful voice, wholly unaware of the churning emotions she had unknowingly impelled upon her father; for there, amidst the modest paper wrapping, lay a pocket watch, encased in silver, ticking innocently, a little battered and tarnished, undoubtedly from the ownership of another, and yet was still, very much in working order. It almost fell from its new owner's hand, those forget-me-not eyes troubled, as if haunted by some unseen ghost from the past. Jane, however, innocently smiled. "I thought you would like it, Papa, since I knew you didn't have one. I was with Mama in town one day—I forget which, since we were at the bookshop, you know the one Mama likes so well—and found it in the shop next to it. What shop was it, Mama, an _antique shop_, you said?" She brightened at her mother's silent affirmation, and thus continued, prattling on in that childlike way of hers, oblivious to the pain she had unknowingly caused. And yet, it was Jane's present joy that made her father consider her gift in spite of his fear of it.

"It is lovely," he said, after a long moment. He saw Jane smile in the belief that she had made him happy with her gift, and his pain lessened by degrees with each tender-taken word she uttered.

"I knew you would like it, even though Mama feared you wouldn't. But when I saw it, I thought it perfect, since its colour matched your hook, Papa! I knew it would do for you then!" she practically beamed at her assumption in his need of a timepiece, where, to his surprise, she embraced him with the whole of her tiny being, her short arms wrapping tenderly around the arm which held his hook. She had yet to reach his waist, of course, but his arm sufficed for now. She was not afraid of what lay at the end of it; her father had never given a reason to, as he had always been careful when around her with his hook.

He gave her a smile, most genuine in its sincerity. "And it _is_ perfect," he reiterated; whereas such, he took the watch from its resting place, his fingers weaving dextrously around its chain before handing the box to Wendy, who kindly accepted it. He looked at her, his silent expression one of uncertainty as he placed the watch in his waistcoat pocket. He allowed it to continue in its ticking without hindrance, as the pocket watch, although now hidden from view, was now a part of the man as his hook was, its silver chain—which remained in sight—no less indicating its presence there.

"It is a lovely timepiece, James," Wendy murmured quietly as she admired hearing its lyrical sound, the _tick, tock, tick, tock, _ticking wholly unlike the clock in the belly of the nightmarish creature that had haunted his every footstep so long ago. She felt him pull her closer, and she instinctively nestled into the comforting warmth of his chest as she heard the steady beating of his heart join in with the pocket watch's ticking.

They remained that way for only a moment, a smiling Jane looking on as her attention was drawn to the window—or rather, what lingered beyond its darkened glass panes. For a moment, she thought she saw something—a movement in the shadows—but reassured herself that she had only imagined it. She barely noticed her father calling out to her as the bright, white winter moon without revealed a cloudless, star-filled the sky—a thousand diamonds floating radiantly in a heavenly black bowl of ink. She frowned at the sight of them. There would be no snow on Christmas, and Jane mourned for the pity of it. She looked at her father, crestfallen, dejected. "If only you could make it snow, Papa," she said to him, as if hopeful that he could master such a Herculean effort, and call forth the dusty white element from the heavens.

But her father, aggrieved as he was to further pain that saddened face, could only deny her. "Oh, my dear girl, even I, a lowly mortal, could never fain dare to work such wonders. But perhaps, if you wish it, there may be a surprise, come the morning," he returned, trying to mollify her as he absently touched the fob of his pocket watch with his one remaining hand. Its cold silver surface was now a comfort to him, as he found himself favouring it, this small timepiece that had been neglected and cast aside, and then found by his daughter, who believed it 'suited' him. It was indeed a gift, worth more than the plethora of riches he had long since forsaken in his ship's hold. He had a new life now, and a family he loved; and no one, not even the likes of that infernal boy, Peter Pan, could ever take it from him.

And so it was that the man formerly known as Captain James Hook fully accepted his daughter's gift, as he bent down to her level, his tall frame meeting hers like that of a shaded weeping willow tree. He placed a kiss upon her forehead, his long fingers brushing through a few of her auburn curls—which she had inherited from his father's side of the family—and whispered what was surely that of a father's love against the tiny shell of her ear. He received a kiss on the tip of his nose, where he once again was bestowed with the title of being the best father she had ever known.

"Ah, but I am the _only_ father you have ever known," he duly pointed out, revelling in her bell-like laughter. In a way, Jane reminded him of the faeries from the Neverland: fragile, yet inspiring in their own, individual beauty. He had little doubt that he would soon lose her to another, these few, precious Christmases all the more precious to him, as they surely were to Wendy. For in a way, like Wendy, Hook did not wish to see his daughter grow up—not when she was holding him as she was now, those forget-me-not eyes reflecting only love for him.

The soft ticking of his pocket watch, however, adjourned these ill musings, where, soon enough, Jane was in bed, already engulfed in the heavy throes of sleep. It had taken little effort on Hook's part to convince her to sleep, having carried her already-sleeping figure up the stairs, before putting her to bed. It was a seldom occasion for him, since either her nurse—for which Liza had been mercifully charged—or Wendy put Jane to bed. But tonight, of all nights, _he_ would be the one to leave her to her dreams, as she surely dreamt of the Neverland. Such a possibility should have pained him; but he did not regret it, nor lament the existence of such innocence, which had once inspired another to fly to those distant, white shores…

He faintly smiled at the memory, knowing well that the one who had brought an end to his miserable existence there was now standing at his side, a much-devoted friend and wife. He gave his storyteller a heartening look as both gazed upon their sleeping daughter. He felt one of her hands rest on his shoulder, its comforting warmth penetrating through his white shirt and waistcoat. He almost growled at the felt of it when he felt her other hand—a curious, bold appendage, to be sure—sift through his thick long mass of hair, the thin band of leather coming loose from its confining fetters as it fell to the floor, forgotten.

"It is a shame that you have to keep it bound," Wendy said at length. "I honestly hate to see you forced into hiding such beauty."

A dark eyebrow rose in question. "As you do with yours?" he dryly remarked, before tilting his head forward and running his good hand through his tangled hair.

Wendy chortled at the rejoinder, for she was greatly amused by it. "I should certainly wish to please you, my love, in keeping my hair down for your pleasure; but unlike those who keep their hair shorn, a lady is expected to bind her hair—unless, of course, you wish me to cut it, like many my age have."

His head darted up at the suggestion, those dark tendrils falling down his back like a rushing black waterfall. He muttered a slight French curse, and his eyes gleamed in apparent displeasure. "You would not dare destroy such infallible beauty," said he, a firm edge in his voice. "No, certainly not, _ma belle._ For if I cannot cut my hair, like those of our acquaintances, then you shall not, either." He glanced at the leather strap in apathy; the damnable thing had constrained him all day. Mercifully, however, Wendy had freed him of it, as she did every evening upon his return home…just as he, in like manner, did for _her_. He was not about to lose _that_ particular privilege.

Glowering at the possibility, he even expressed as much: "I will not have you looking like some kind of…_flapper,_" he muttered softly, lest he awaken Jane. "Indeed, as thy father would have said, 'Such begs to be excused', though there is no excuse to be had for such carelessness. Oh, do stop smiling; it is not a laughing matter. Brimstone and gall, but I am a laughing stock in my own home!" He shook his head, frustrated, as she had always brought out that unwanted quality in him. He walked over to the nursery window—that very gateway that had brought her to him—and looked upon the world without, silent, brooding, an impassive statue of living stone.

Wendy thought it endearing. Returning to his side, her arms came around him, entreating that unmovable expression, placating him. She felt him stiffen at the gesture, though as she looked at him, she saw a hint of a smile linger under that menacing glare. She had broken though that impenetrable façade. _Now, there is but one thing to do_, she thought as she stood on her tiptoes—for she was a good deal shorter than he—and placed a kiss on that chiselled mouth. He gave in to her silent entreaty, those timeless forget-me-nots luminous in the pale moonlight, and Wendy admired such wondrous beauty, that long hair of his one of his greatest attributes.

It had been a mercy that he refused to cut it—if only for her sake—as he suffered the constant whispers and stares, not only by virtual strangers in the street, but also by those who knew him in his profession. For out of all things he could have chosen as an occupation, he had chosen that which Wendy knew he wanted to be. Though how he had convinced the provost to take him on as a headmaster was a mystery in itself, since his appearance—with his long, unshorn hair and gleaming iron hook—would place any well-meaning schoolmaster under duress. Though hired he had been, his stipend bringing the family a modest income. His daily adventures as a headmaster were tiring, though pleasurable. The odyssey in which he faced on a daily basis, however, was a challenge to him—one that he revelled in since rejecting his pirating ways.

It was the gentlemanly thing to do, of course, given his profession in setting a prime example of attainting good form for young boys. He maintained a semblance of dignity from his ancestors, though his family's surname was no longer used, since his having shamed it so long ago. He was James Worthington now, a commoner with no title, and certainly no noble blood running through his veins. He had rejected to openly acknowledge the truth of his ancestry, having chosen instead to live a without privilege, as his beloved had so humbly done since her youth. He would not live the life he once had. Nor would he return to that which he had once been, having sworn off any form of revenge against the boy.

It had been difficult for him, since he had pursued the boy for centuries. Wendy paused in thought. _Though all of that had changed, when I met him here, in the nursery, of all places_, she thought quietly_._ She had been nineteen then, barely a young woman out of finishing school. She recalled a shadow in the room, the window having been left open for another. His presence had frightened her at first, just as his intent to return her to the Neverland had disheartened her. _And yet, he did not force me to come. I went of my own will—something he had not expected_. She secretly smiled at the small triumph. For just as she remained in his company, his desire to use her for revenge had faltered, leaving him hopelessly drawn to the young woman who had captivated him with her stories. He had found himself falling for her, his emotions torn, his captain's firm resolve rendered into that of a smitten schoolboy. There was little else he could do but to ask for her hand, of which he had miraculously acquired, as both left the timeless joys of the Neverland for a transient life in London.

Many of her brothers, including Michael, had been reluctant to accept a man with a hook for a hand. None of them could remember what had transpired in the Neverland, of course, but something, perhaps deeply-ingrained within their memories, had warned them to be wary of this man who looked at their sister so lovingly, if not a little possessively. Mr. and Mrs. Darling had also been reluctant to accept a man, who had claimed to have married their daughter in some faraway land. Aunt Millicent had despaired in Wendy's choice of husband; for out of all of her many suitors, had Wendy chosen one whom her aunt would never have considered. _And yet, he is a good husband and father, as even Aunt Millicent must now agree_.

For indeed, it had taken the older woman a few years to accustom herself to the idea of having Hook as a nephew, though after Mr. and Mrs. Darling's deaths, she had begun to see the anchor James Worthington indubitably was—not only to a host of men he now considered his brothers, but most especially in his being there for Wendy, since he had personally seen to the funeral arrangements of Mrs. Darling, since Mr. Darling, in his state of grief, could not. But then, he had also seen to Mr. Darling's as well, as he, rather reluctantly, took on the mantle of being 'Father' to a host of young men, who considered him a brother. He managed No. 14 as Mr. Darling originally had done, though it was now known as the Worthington residence, for all of the Darlings had either left or married into another name.

And yet, strangely enough, it had been _his_ choice to leave the Neverland, and begin anew. He wanted a new life; and if that meant losing his immortality, then he accepted it, even if the boy, tragic though Peter fatally was, could never understand the pain and pleasures in growing up. Hook had 'grown up' for Wendy, after all, having finally accepted the consequences for his actions, if not strove for redemption; where, true to form, he returned to the faith of his ancestors, having become a very observant, if not a thoroughly devoted Anglican.

Of course, his piety was not expressed outwardly, since he could not, in good conscience, make a martyr of himself—not for the many sins he had committed. For he, unlike those who believed and attended without fault, knew what it was to divert from the Path of Faith. He had been set apart from them, humbled by the many regrets he had. For like Wendy, St. George's had been a beacon of light for him. He could now hope, where before he could not. Even the last sermon given by the rector had inspired him, the issue of forgiveness and the many joys derived from the birth of a Saviour, flawless and perfect, a willing sacrifice to all when there was no other, almost bringing him to tears.

He did not cry, of course, since many in the congregation would undoubtedly take offence to the crimson tears streaming down his face. Instead, he kept his sorrows to himself, until later revealing them to an understanding Wendy, who had remained with him, well after the service had ended.

Wendy shook her head. Her husband had changed so much in their time together; and though she could attest to his behaving like Peter at times, he was no less the prince she had often dreamed of having rescued her from her dull London life. He had brought colour to her world, and had given her something that Peter never could.

As such, she stood up on her tiptoes again, and placed a kiss in the cage where his heart dwelled. She almost cried out when his arms came around her, those dark forget-me-nots full of mischief.

"Your thoughts are distant tonight," he observed quietly. "I cannot help but wonder what that lovely mind of yours is thinking, _ma belle_."

Wendy flushed at her namesake, for she was no real beauty, even though he argued the contrary. "I was merely thinking of our family, and how happy I am to live the life I have," she answered quietly.

A dark eyebrow raised in suspicion. "Are you?" he returned, half-incredulous.

"I am," she reaffirmed with a smile. "Having you and Jane is all I could ever want."

He chuckled in amusement. "You placate me, to be sure," he mused, the pocket watch's soft ticking echoing profoundly between them. Hook grinned, the calloused tips of his fingers idly tracing over its worn fob. "Indeed so, as I am quite certain that you had positively _nothing_ to do with our daughter's idea of a gift for me. A pocket watch, my dear? Truly, you would have given your poor old husband a start over such an unexpected keepsake."

His storyteller, however, did not laugh at his clever insinuation—most especially, because of his handling their daughter's gift. "It was Jane's suggestion," she answered quietly, a slight frown marring her youthful countenance. "I had honestly feared that you would be upset over it, James. I am sorry if it startled you…I did not want you to be hurt by it, as I know—"

"I am already taken by it," he interjected suddenly, unexpectedly, his fingers silencing her apology. He pulled her closer, his long arms encircling the small of her back. "I am not upset by it, though I was…surprised that Jane should realise my lack of such a common necessity. She truly is her mother's daughter."

Wendy returned his smile. "And her father's!" she chimed in merrily, a thought suddenly coming to mind.

For without another word, Wendy took his hand in hers, his questioning look compelling her to proceed in her silent endeavour. She looked at him, those dark eyes concealing that which she had kept secret since that morning. "I suppose Jane is very much like me, since I cannot wait until tomorrow to give my gift to you," she confessed to him in a guarded whisper.

Hook frowned at her sudden change in demeanour. "What is it, Wendy?" he pressed gently. "What have you to tell me? I have already gotten the shock of my life from Jane tonight. What you have to tell me cannot be so dreadful," he teased in jest, though, to his dismay, Wendy's smile faltered.

She hesitated, briefly, before answering him. "I cannot wait, as there is something I have wanted to tell you all day. I just could not find the perfect time to…" She shook her head before taking his hand and placing it over her abdomen, her silent action speaking for her. "You shall have your gift in another seven months."

Hook's eyes widened at the implication. "By my hook, but are you certain?" he queried, hopeful, for now he understood her reason in going into town by herself. She had seen a physician, and he, knowing none the better!

Wendy nodded. "I had suspected, but I wanted to be sure before I said anything. I know we have had no such luck since Jane, and I had honestly feared it was nothing. I did not want to disappoint you, James."

Her husband made a face. "Disappoint me?" he reiterated. "Good heavens, woman, you have certainly, far from disappointed me; for even if we had no more than Jane, I would not be disappointed in thee, _ma belle_," he said gently, if not sincerely. "You have truly made me a very happy man. Indeed, I daresay that I have now received two surprises from which I might never recover!"

His storyteller laughed, her smile returning in full. "I suppose that you shall confine me to the house then, and not allow me to do anything as you had when I was pregnant with Jane."

He snorted at the suggestion. "Certainly not," replied he. "I will not be so low as to pamper and coddle you, a hysterical woman—goodness, no! Indeed, I shall make you labour throughout thy term, in swabbing every floor on every level of this house for surprising me so."

Wendy shook her head at his good-natured teasing. He would indulge and pamper her as he had before. "Oh, it is a well-deserved punishment, I am sure," she gracefully returned, her eyes full of mischief. "I shall cater to your every whim, my love, for the shock I have given your poor heart. And you do realise that Jane shall want another pet, as a gift when the baby comes."

Hook returned her point with a dramatic sigh. "I can bear another turtle," he admitted, relenting in the possibility of what Jane was surely to ask of him, six months from now. "I can certainly allow our daughter another turtle, for I have a most perfect name for it already. But what I cannot allow is Lady Grey having a Lord Dudley about the house. We already have a circus as it is with you, Jane, and her _beloved_ pets. We can certainly do without an endless menagerie of Lady Grey's offspring. Odds, bobs, but I cannot understand _why_ your friend had to give her a rabbit, of all things. Is she as mad as that husband of hers, who has to wear a hat with a tag still in it? Why not a plant or some inanimate thing, like a mirror or a book?" he huffed, as if disappointed in the idea, but then he smiled. "Of course, I should thank God it was not something more _reptilian_ than that infernal turtle. This pocket watch is certainly enough without anything harbouring it in its gullet."

His storyteller chortled at his clever assertion. "That is something that you shall surely never have to worry about, since you shall only see such things in the zoo, my love. Perhaps it _was_ best that you left the Neverland, if only to escape from such ravenous creatures."

"Ravenous creatures?" he echoed, that questioning brow rising once again. "I hazard to say that _you_ are such a designated creature,_ ma_ _belle_. And besides which, there was—once upon a time, mind you—a horrid creature terrorising the Lionheart's kingdom, when it, rather unfortunately, escaped from his holdings in London. It frightened the poor villagers in Suffolk, as I recall; and of course, it was never captured, since it eluded its captors by slipping into a _bog_. Most, I am sure, believed it a dragon at the time."

"A veritable wyvern, no doubt," Wendy thoughtfully concluded, and her husband nodded.

"I suppose St. George was scarce in attendance, when the villagers needed his aid most," he retorted dryly, a careless shrug only adding to his ironic declaration.

Wendy shook her head. "People will think you a heretic, for not believing in such things," she replied, a hinted forewarning.

Hook considered her words carefully. "I never said that _I _did not believe in dragons," he firmly pointed out. "For indeed, most would believe _you_ mad for believing in such fanciful things as faeries, with science and reason explaining away everything we know to be true. I daresay I fear that such will be the end of faeries, as the old traditions are fading fast in this new century."

His storyteller silently agreed, for she knew such to be unfortunately true. People no longer believed as they once did; and some traditions, which Hook aptly noted, were becoming lost with each passing generation. It was a shame really, for Wendy also feared that even the Neverland would soon become lost in the shadows of forgetfulness.

And yet, it was her husband who absolved her present concerns as he assured her that such would not come to pass, not if at least one person still yet believed. "For I know that the Otherworld and its creatures will never be destroyed entirely by the culpability of man," avowed he. "For like Christmas, they shall endure through all of the ages. It is a tradition that cannot be forgotten, just as there is _one_ Christmas tradition that I shall never forget to partake in, _Mrs. Worthington_, as 'tis certainly my favourite tradition of all."

And as he spoke these words, he pulled her closer, his lips barely a breadth away from hers. He winked at her, that pirate's grin of his charming her, enticing her as those radiant forget-me-nots urged her to look up. And sad to confess it, but Wendy's curiosity had gotten the better her as she indeed looked up, and gasped. For there, hanging, as if suspended by magic, was a sprig of mistletoe. She looked at it in silent wonder before her lips were claimed by an impatient Hook, to whom she gave in to, most passionately.

They broke apart after what seemed an eternity, both gasping for breath. Wendy blushed faintly at such unspoken intimacy, for after so many years in being in his company had she never fully managed to outlast any of his kisses. She could only smile at his choice in celebrating Christmas by gifting her with a most unusual gift, an ancient Norse custom rendered into a Christmas tradition. She almost laughed at his cavalier manner in waiting until their daughter was asleep. Leave it to her husband to be also a stickler for _tradition_. Heaven only knew how those who served under him in the Neverland endured his constant need to remain true to the traditions he so long lived by. Of course, she would have him no other way. There were so many mysteries surrounding him that Wendy doubted she would ever solve the human puzzle of the man she had married. Wendy shook her head, a small, half-smile resting at the corner of her lips.

"That was more than a mere _thimble_, you realise, _Mr. Worthington_," said she, and she received from him a heady bark of laughter. "You insidious man! You are still, ever the pirate I knew you to be in the Neverland. Why I endure your constancy in vexing me is beyond all reasonable comprehension," she muttered, if not partly in amusement.

Hook kissed her again, silencing her with that most sacrosanct of kisses. Wendy could only give in to such determined persistence, however, for who was she to deny him this most treasured of gifts? Indeed, to the storytelling part in her, she could think of no other ending for Hook and herself. It was magic; it had to be. For after all, what would Captain Hook be without his storyteller? For a man, once a villain now redeemed through love and by faith, had become something scarcely found in the pages of books and fairytales.

No one would believe it, surely, for to tell the whole of their adventures would be an awfully long story, as such was the stuff from which dreams were made, illusive, impossible, a glorious fantasy that would all but disappear with the coming of a new day. And it was such a day that compelled both the captain and his storyteller to look beyond the casement. Neither noticed the shadow of what looked to be a young boy outside of the nursery window; they ignored its presence completely. Instead, something else, more magical and wondrous, caught their eye. For beyond the nursery window was a gift given from the heavens—a gift their daughter would surely love—as it was a gift that proved anything was possible.

It was snowing.

…

**Author's Note: It is finally done at last, and right on time, too! Honestly, I have been planning this for months now, and am only glad I had the time—**_**and**_** the inspiration—to write it. Really, though, I apologise for any errors, as I shall certainly revise this story, sometime, hopefully, in the future. But yes, I must confess that this is probably the lightest, most hopeful thing I have ever posted, if not written, on this site. But then, it **_**is**_** Christmas, and I wanted something unlike my usual writings. I shall save my dark, depressing stories of death and devastation for another day, as I feel that Christmas is not a time for them.**

**Also, Hook's mentioning Richard the Lionheart having a crocodile in England is true. Apparently, it had somehow managed to escape from his zoo, which was, most ironically, in the Tower of London. Undoubtedly, many thought it a dragon at the time, since most would never before have seen such a creature as a crocodile, as it terrorised their villages. From my reading of it, the crocodile was never caught, as I am sure it did not survive long after its escape. There is an online website called Mysterious Britain that has more information on it. It also has more about dragons in Britain in general, which is greatly appealing for anyone interested in the subject.**

**And lest I forget, Hook's choice in occupation is based off of Mr. J.M. Barrie's original notes for **_**Peter Pan**_**. Originally, Mr. Barrie had scripted for Peter and Wendy to live in Kensington Gardens, whilst a very vengeful Hook, dressed in the guise of a schoolteacher, pursued them. Of course, that idea was eventually cast aside, since it dealt with harlequinade and Nineteenth Century stage comedy. Really, though, I am rather glad of Mr. Barrie deciding to have the story of **_**Peter Pan**_** the way it presently is now, although the idea of having Hook in London is a most appealing thought! (Grins.)**

**Is there anything else that I have forgotten to mention? Oh, yes! The quote at the top **_**had**_** to be from **_**A Christmas Carol**_**, since there was no other Christmas story I would have chosen for this oneshot, as it is also a great wealth of inspiration for anyone, most specifically at this time of year. Dickens' Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come is, by far, my favourite character in the story. The 1984 film adaptation is certainly worth the time in watching, for any who favour Dickens, or simply love the story. The **_**Edward Scissorhands **_**soundtrack also aided me in the writing of this. Danny Elfman. Genius. Absolutely.**

**But yes, I do hope everyone has enjoyed this, as it is something that I found great pleasure in writing. Wendy and Jane's little surprises for an unsuspecting Hook **_**were**_** surprising, certainly! (Laughs.) But yes, it is probably the lightest Hook/Wendy story I have ever written, which is a nice break from of all the darkness that seems to inundate the couple in my other stories. **

**Merry Christmas, and best wishes for the New Year,**

— **Kittie**

**March 17****th****, 2010: I also wanted to make a note that this story has been updated and corrected. Hopefully, any errors that previously existed are now taken care of. I apologise for any inconvenience that they may have caused.**


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